Voices echoed here, and he caught snatches of conversations as visitors talked among themselves.
“I liked the blue room, best—”
“How long do you think it takes to dust everything—?”
“Mind you, the bedrooms are quite nice, but aren’t the beds rather small—?”
“If there are horses in the stables, can I ride—”
He’d just finished his food when the woman who had opened the door to him that morning came down the stairs, looked around, and spotted him. Threading her way through the tables, she said quietly as she reached him, “May I join you?”
He noticed that she had avoided his title.
“Please do.”
“I’m the housekeeper. I’ve been here at the Abbey since 1908.” She sat down. “I have asked Lady Benton if she would like to have me stay in the house for a while. Until this—situation—has been resolved. She won’t hear of it. I would like to ask you to advise her to bring someone in. Only temporarily, of course. She might listen to you.”
“Truthfully? I don’t think I could persuade her. It might frighten her, if I tried,” he replied.
She regarded him impatiently. “I don’t believe she’s safe.”
“Why?”
She glanced over her shoulder, making certain that she couldn’t be overheard. “I believe her when she tells me that someone was on the grounds, that Friday evening. I don’t know who they were or what they were about. But she’s not safe.”
“Why?” he asked again. “Is there anyone who might wish to harm her?”
The woman bit her lip. “No—I can’t imagine why anyone should. But then why put on such a display when they must have been sure she was watching?”
That, Rutledge thought, was the first practical view of what had happened on Friday night.
“Who would do such a thing? To what purpose?”
“You’re the policeman, I expect you to tell me the answer to that.”
“There’s the question of who is to gain if something happened to Lady Benton. Who inherits the Abbey, if she were to die?”
“It’s left to the National Trust. There’s an elderly cousin somewhere, Wiltshire, I think. But he wants no part of the house. Never did, as far as I know. I don’t believe he’s ever set foot in it. At least not in my time here.”
“Perhaps,” Rutledge said, “he’s changed his mind.” Or someone in his family had finally realized what he had so cavalierly dismissed.
But she shook her head. “It’s not likely. According to Lady Benton.” She glanced over her shoulder again. Then added, “There are valuables in the house. Paintings, silver, books. And she owns some nice bits of jewelry. If someone frightened her into moving into the village even for a few days, the house would be vulnerable. He could take his time going through the rooms.”
“Have you ever had a visitor who aroused suspicion—asked too many questions about certain objects or appeared to be—different from the usual run of person who comes through?” Rutledge asked.
She sighed. “A few times. One of the gardeners is rather burly. We had him ask one man to leave. There was no trouble. Still, it was worrying.”
“What about insurance? For the more valuable pieces?”
“I don’t know. She doesn’t tell me such things. And I expect it’s quite expensive. There’s that alcove in the Green Drawing Room. Meissen figures, shepherds and shepherdesses, harlequins. And there’s that silver salt boat in the grand dining room. A galleon in full sail, that piece. Of course, it would be more difficult to sell, it’s too well known. Still, that’s why there’s always someone sitting in the rooms when we’re open. Too easy to scoop up a small treasure, pocket it, and walk out.”
“You’re suggesting that the events in the terrace garden were a cover for robbery. Has anything actually gone missing?”
She shook her head. “Not that I know of. Not that we’ve discovered so far.” Leaning forward on her crossed arms, she said earnestly. “A ghost. And a dead body that didn’t exist. It doesn’t make sense, does it? It’s as if they were putting on a show—whoever they are. And there must be a reason for it.”
“Was Lady Benton close to the officer who died when his motorcar crashed into the hedge?”
Surprised that he knew about the Captain, she answered, “He reminded her of Eric, I think. Her son. She missed him so. And she took the Captain’s death hard. I mean, she knew the risks. He flew, after all. And he was good at it. I expect that was how he expected to die. Not like that. Surely.”
Or it was possible that the waiting had become its own burden.
“Was it suicide? Or accident? No one seems to have an opinion about that.”
Frowning, she shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t think that anyone does—”
Someone called, “Mrs. Hailey, so sorry to interrupt—”
The woman glanced over her shoulder, toward the speaker at the foot of the stairs, an older woman dressed in dark blue. Turning back to Rutledge, Mrs. Hailey said, “I’m needed. But you will think about speaking to Lady Benton?”
“Yes.” It wasn’t a promise, he told himself.
He watched her walk away, her head bent to listen to whatever problem the younger woman had brought to her to solve.
Hamish said unexpectedly, “Do ye think it was housebreakers playing at ghosts?”
The deep Scots voice seemed to echo through the undercroft, and Rutledge dropped his teaspoon, bending to retrieve it as he covered his surprise.
A great deal of trouble to go through, he replied silently, when the Abbey could be entered in the middle of the night, without fanfare. It could be the middle of the morning or later before anyone noticed a broken lock on a little-used entrance.
“Aye, then why yon charade? Even the Chief Constable wonders if Lady Benton is no’ well in the heid. The question is, will there be ither ways to frighten her—and leave doubt in the minds of those around her?”
“That’s possible,” he agreed. Rutledge rose, collecting his dishes and setting them on the little tray before taking it up to a small table, where a smiling young woman whisked them out of sight. “But what are they after? Robbery? Having her committed? Or are they simply tormenting her, for the sake of making her life a misery? If she cared about the Captain, seeing him murder someone is quite a clever way of hurting her.”
He’d made his way out of the undercroft and was passing the statue in the great hall, when a thought occurred to him. “It wasn’t her family who dispossessed the monks. I don’t see any gain in punishing her for what her husband’s ancestors did.”
“But she didna’ see a monk.”
Leaving by the main door, he went out to his motorcar and turned the crank.
Behind him, the house was quiet, the flurry of visitors dwindling as the afternoon wore on. Save for those still in the undercroft.
Looking up at the handsome facade, he thought about Lady Benton’s day. She prepared for visitors in the early morning, and then kept an eye on everything that was happening in the house, until it was time to close. Even then she must have to walk through the public rooms, turning out lamps, making certain no one had been left behind—looking to see if anything needed to be dusted or polished or even put back exactly in its place. When her staff left, what did she do then? Take a tray of food to her rooms, and shut off the rest of the house? He wondered if she could put Friday out of her mind. Not just the responsibility but the knowledge that she was alone. It wouldn’t be surprising if that led to an overly active imagination . . .